I was thirteen when I used the word ‘vagina’ for the first time. Not that I was unaware of the word, but I never thought to use it.
“What is this?” he had asked putting his fingers inside.
He continued to probe, his fingers going higher while tears rolled down my cheeks.
“Say Vagina!” he had said
‘Vagina! Vagina!’ I had said through my cracked voice, he had laughed, his head extended as he laughed even louder, and for some few minutes I think he forgot we were to whisper.
Day after day, he taught me to use some more words; he would show me the part, tell me what it was called and show me how it was touched.
One day, I came home from school to find Aunty and Mummy crying so hard, there were a few women and men in the house.
‘What happened?’ I said.
“Your uncle is dead!” One of the women said.
‘How?’
“He died in his sleep” Aunty replied.
I was confused, I wondered how my uncle, strong and healthy as he was, could just sleep and never wake up.
“My brother! He was such a good man!” Mummy screamed “Took us in, cared for us! Look at me, I would have been at the mercy of my in-laws”.
Aunty got up to hold me, she held me in a tight hug – lips to my ears, and I think I heard her say “Now, you’d be fine!”
I lifted my head to look at their faces; I think I saw Aunty and Mummy smile.
We began to cry!
I cried because I would miss saying ‘Vagina’.
Crossing the line from hating it to wanting it is something you never realize.
“Please! Someone make me say the word ‘vagina’” I whispered.
This piece was inspired by a thought late at night. I thought about the many stories of girls molested, and how even when they are pulled out of the situation – a part of them may be longing for the touch because somehow against their will their mind have recognize this as pleasure.
My Editor gave a name to my thought….. Stockholm Syndrome.
Thoughts of a Medstudent 
Hmmmmm, this is one deep story. Lives then go on and later when it becomes more evident it would then take great intervention to end it.
Thanks for reading Oluwaseun. I guess that was also what I thought when I wrote this. It is always hard to help when we think the end of the situation is the end of the story….. There is a nasty backstage that would always play.
I can connect with this. During the Ikeja cantonment blast, my cousins came over to stay with us because they were affected by the blast. On one occasion, my mum left him with me and went out. He was supposed to teach me my quantitative assignment. But oh well, he did more than teach me. I cant even describe it. I havent stopped thinking about it since i read this post.
Thank you Kelia…Thank you for this post.
Thanks for reading Blessing, sometimes at after writing I think ‘such bullshit, no one reading this would relate to this, maybe you saying too much’…. Thanks for your comment.
That one touch against our will has the capacity to always hurt.
I love the depth of this write… And also the reality of it. It’s something most people can relate to. I’m glad you could bring yourself to write about it on behalf of those who can’t.
Thanks Valentine. This comment is much needed right now. I would get my notepad and pen and do some more writing.